Our neighbor Karen and her husband Gale have a lot of horses, like about ten. Okay, so it’s not as many as Pioneer Woman (I don’t even need to link to her—you all know who she is and that her cookbook is number one on the New York Bestsellers list, right?), but it’s still a lot, especially considering that they don’t have any cattle which would require horses for herding (that sentence does not make much sense, but I trust you’re smart enough to figure it out). And they used to have more like sixteen horses.

Their rented pasture borders our (unused) pasture, and the kids like to chat with the horses over the barbed wire fence. They also pick grass for them and shyly pat their noses.

As for me, I pretty much ignore them, except for when I happen to glance out the kitchen window and catch sight of three or four of the magnificent creatures thundering across the meadow. Then I am forced to pause in my little race from fridge to stove to sink and stare at them as they whirl and kick up their heels. They’re practically in my backyard, and once in a while they get in my backyard and then we close the gate so they don’t hightail it down the road and make the requisite phone calls and watch to make sure they don’t take a fancy to our peach trees.

Last week Karen stopped by with a stack of farm magazines for us to read and/or cut up and with an invitation for the kids to come over and ride horses. I readily accepted, and when I went back into the house and reported our conversation to the kids, you could have heard them hollering the whole way over in China.

That was on Friday; we were scheduled to ride on Sunday afternoon. This was to be the first time that the kids had ever ridden a horse (except for Sweetsie who got to ride a horse at a friend’s birthday party), and they became obsessed: with the weather forecast (Yo-Yo), with how many “sleeps” remained (Sweetsie), and with appropriate riding attire (Miss Beccaboo). The big day finally arrived, and each minute was impatiently endured, and then, suddenly, it was 2:55 and could begin the walk over to the riding ring.

The horses were big, but they became huge when I helped to hoist my three year old up into the saddle.

Apparently, Nickel thought they were huge too, because he immediately slumped over and laid as low as possible.

I called to him, urging him to sit up, which he did…

But only for a moment.

Karen volunteers at a camp for mentally and physically handicapped children where she assists with the equine therapy, and she did some of the same camp activities with my kids—balancing exercises and jousting games (foam swords).

She and Gale taught the older two how to stop and start and turn and back up and then let go of the lead rope and let the kids ride by themselves, though they always walked alongside.

See that halo above Karen’s head? That’s what you get when you give up a couple hours of your gorgeous Sunday afternoon to take four little kids on horse rides.

Mr. Handsome and I hung around the fence, only coming into the riding ring to help the kids mount and dismount or do whatever it was that Karen needed doing. Mostly I just stood there and grinned like a fool, so happy to see my kids riding a horse and loving every minute of it.

I’m a little scared of horses because I got thrown from one when I was fifteen. My girlfriend Beth and I were riding horses through their fields when the horses spooked and veered, smoothly depositing us on the ground. I hit my head, the lights went out, and when I woke up, Beth was crying and her forearm was all wavy like in a cartoon. We got an ambulance ride (going up and down over West Virginia back roads, laying down backwards and with a concussion is not a particularly pleasant experience). I spent the night in the hospital for observation purposes, but in the end, all that ailed me was a stiff back. And a nervous fear of horses.

I don’t want my kids to grow up like me, edgy and uptight around horses—it’s just not cool. I doubt they’ll ever be like PW’s kids (it’s not like we live on a ranch and they have the same opportunities), but still, I want them to be knowledgeable about the graceful giants and to feel at home around them. Sunday was a good first step.

Here’s Mr. Handsome, probably dreaming about getting our upper pasture properly fenced off and a barn built so that we can one day have a horse of our own.

Or maybe he’s dreaming about swinging up into the saddle and galloping off into the sunset in a cloud of dust.

Oops, he’s spied me. And look at that expression; I do believe he feels sheepish! Which means he was dreaming the latter dream. Obviously.

About One Year Ago: Homeschooling angst.

Last week Mr. Handsome finished up a remodeling job over in West Virginia. This is nothing new (though the distance was unusual); he does work like this all the time—roofing, repair work, renovations—but this job stood out above the others because of David and Jody, the homeowners.

David and Jody treated my husband and his co-workers like royalty, visiting with them, feeding them homemade pastries, keeping a pot of coffee always at the ready, and even cooking them the occasional mid-day feast complete with multiple side dishes and a dessert.

Not only did David and Jody think of their workers, they thought about their workers’ families. One day Mr. Handsome came home with a plate of brownies “for the children,” and just this last week there was a half-dozen freshly made lemon-poppy seed muffins. That bottle of homemade elderberry wine that I mentioned? From David and Jody. And on his last day of work there, Mr. Handsome handed me a white business envelope, a check for a generous amount stuck inside, “so you can take your wife out for dinner,” David had explained. It was the second time that Mr. Handsome has been tipped since I’ve known him.

On the days when they got fed a hot lunch, Mr. Handsome came home chattering about what Jody had cooked for them. He actually waxed poetic over some of her dinners, his fingers grasping the air as he tried to conjure up the appropriate description, and he flat-out raved over a chicken chili she made them. I listened politely, not sure if he was thrilled over the chili itself, or if it was just that he was blown away because a customer was thoughtful enough to prepare them a meal (I didn’t care if they fed him scrambled eggs and toast—I was just happy that someone was taking care of my man). But the next day when Mr. Handsome came home and handed me the recipe for the chili, I decided I’d better listen up. Raving about something is one thing; following through and coming home with the recipe is another thing altogether.

I made the soup and it was delicious indeed—rich, creamy, satisfying, and fancy enough to be a company soup. I’ll tell you about it in a minute, but I first want to say a couple other things about these special customers.

Maybe it seems like a normal, common sense thing for homeowners to offer their contractors some hospitality—these men are stomping around your house with nail guns and circular saws after all—but it isn’t. Many places where Mr. Handsome and his co-workers are employed, the homeowners don’t even offer them the use of their bathroom, and in the really bad cases the customers lock the doors to their houses when they leave for work in the morning (in those situations, obviously, the guys are doing roofing work or building outside additions)—if the guys are lucky, there are some trees nearby where they can pee, but sometimes they have to drive to find a public restroom.

Needless to say, David and Jody’s hospitality was refreshing, encouraging, and flattering. Mr. Handsome said that when the remodel was finished, Jody had tears in her eyes, so excited was she over her new sewing room.

Now, for the soup.

Chicken and White Bean Chili
Adapted from Jody’s recipe; she, in turn, got it from Epicurious

The original recipe calls for about five times as much heat as I have in here. Crazy hot, if you ask me. (Which I would probably enjoy, given the opportunity, but I have to think of other people besides myself sometimes.) Play with the spices and chilis and do what works for your family.

This soup doesn’t have much color—it is a “white” soup, after all—but if you want to increase the eye appeal, add some minced green and red pepper when you sauté the onion. Some diced carrot would be nice, too, I think. The original recipe also calls for a green chili (or tomatillo) sauce to be drizzled on top; cilantro (or parsley) pesto might be another option.

1 pound dried small white beans
4 tablespoons butter
2 large onions, diced
1/3 cup flour
4 cups chicken broth
3 cups half and half
4 cups cooked chicken, shredded
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 canned jalapeño, minced
½ teaspoon hot pepper sauce
1 tablespoon cumin
2 teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon white pepper
1 ½ cups grated white cheese such as Monterey Jack or medium cheddar
1 cup sour cream
fresh cilantro, chopped

Soak the beans overnight. The next day, drain them, put them back in the soup pot, cover with water and simmer till almost tender—about an hour. Drain.

Melt the butter in a large kettle. Add the onions and sauté till tender. Add the flour and stir well. Whisk in the chicken broth and half and half and simmer for about ten minutes. Add the beans, chili peppers, chili powder, cumin, hot sauce, salt, and white pepper and simmer for another twenty minutes. Add the chicken, grated cheese and sour cream and heat through, but do not boil. Season to taste.

Ladle the soup into bowls and garnish with cilantro.

Yield: Quite a bit.

Updated November 27, 2010: Made it with less chicken and half-and-half, no peppers, half the sour cream, and a bit of heavy cream. Added chopped spinach, a cube of cilantro (or else a cube of plain, pureed cilantro—not sure which, thanks to unclear labeling), and smoked salt. Served with skillet cornbread. Delicious.

One Year Ago: Peanut Butter Cream Pie.

If you haven’t already figured it out, Mom fed us well when we visited her and Dad this passed week. The menu was vegetarian (because that’s what Shannon is), except for the bacon, but Mom is a whiz with garden produce and they eat many of their meals without meat anyway. Along with the aforementioned kale and turnips and eggs and toast and broccoli soup, there was beans and rice, oven fries, green beans (with sauteed mushrooms for the sophisticated among us), butternut squash, and salad with olives and feta.

And there were desserts, too, of course. Butternut squash pies with whipped cream, lemon meringue pie, pumpkin cheesecake bars that Shannon brought, and chocolate cake with brown sugar icing of which I was particularly fond, so fond, in fact, that when I got home I made a chocolate cake just so I would have a place to put some brown sugar icing.

I served Mr. Handsome a piece of the cake without telling him what kind of icing it was. After a couple bites, he said, “It’s butterscotch icing, right?” I was slightly stunned. I didn’t even think of it as butterscotch, but he couldn’t be more right. Man, he’s good!

And so is this icing.

Brown Sugar Icing

This a cross between a glaze and a frosting. Don’t try to spread it with a knife; instead, pour it on top of the cake and then gently push it to the edges so that it runs down the sides and puddles on the platter.

This recipe makes enough icing to frost a sheet cake. I only needed enough to ice a one-layer chocolate cake, so I’m storing the rest in the fridge for now. I imagine it should reheat just fine in the microwave.

1 stick butter
1 packed cup brown sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 cup milk (or half-and-half)
½ teaspoon vanilla
1 cup confectioner’s sugar, sifted
1/3 cup chopped pecans, toasted, optional
a couple pinches of chunky salt, optional

In a heavy bottomed saucepan, melt the stick of butter. Add the cup of brown sugar and the pinch of salt. Stirring steadily, bring the mixture to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat a bit, and cook the slowly bubbling mixture, still stirring, for a full minute. Remove the saucepan from the heat and add the milk.

Set the pan in a larger bowl of ice cubes. Stir every several minutes until the mixture has cooled down a bit (it will still be warm, though) and thickened. Take the saucepan out of the bowl of ice cubes and stir in the vanilla and confectioner’s sugar.

Frost the cake and sprinkle with the pecans and chunky salt.

About One Year Ago: No Zip, or election withdrawal. (That big election was just a year ago. Remember the gut-wrenching anxiety?)